


you're ripped at every edge (but you're a masterpiece).

by blxxm



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Related, F/F, Slow Burn, everything from chloe's pov basically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:50:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blxxm/pseuds/blxxm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank tells you that this batch is good enough that you’ll see stars, and you trust him because hey, he’s the only person that hasn’t been an ass to you since you dyed your hair.<br/>You don’t see stars but you dream of Max and how you think she’d taste like space, and you think maybe that’s the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're ripped at every edge (but you're a masterpiece).

**_lachesism:_ **

_the desire to be struck by disaster—to survive a plane crash, to lose everything in a fire, to plunge over a waterfall—which would put a kink in the smooth arc of your_ _life_

 

* * *

 

 

You’re six years old when you meet Maxine Caulfield, when she rings your doorbell with a cardboard box in her hands and a grin on her face.

You didn’t understand at first, it’s not every day that a girl with rain-wet hair and wild eyes holds a box up to you with a blush on her cheeks. But you hear a noise come from the box, and you snatch it from her.

Your cat, Bongo, had gone missing two days ago, and the girl was returning him. You called out to your mother, who wasted no time in rushing the girl inside from the rain with an offer of pancakes and the reward of money.

\--

The girl only takes the pancakes, stays and eats four of them without a pause between them. It shocks you, you can only finish two and your Dad’s record is six.

“Wow.” You had muttered, and she looked up at you and smiled sheepishly before admitting she was pretty hungry.

Your mother introduces you to her, because somewhere between staring at this girl and the syrup on her chin you had forgotten how to do it yourself.

“Nice to meet you, Chloe,” she offers you a hand, and you shake it – it’s sticky, but grownups shake hands and you’re sick of being a kid. “I’m Max.”

You figured you couldn’t tell her who you were because she already knew, so you point towards the sleeping ball of fluff by the table.

“That’s Bongo, he’s only a year old.”

She nods, and you sigh when she finally cleans up her chin with her sleeve.

“Do you like pirates?”

You nod, “Yeah, they’re cool. But I like superheroes more.”

She smiles, and you notice she has three freckles across her nose and that she’s missing one of her front teeth.

“Okay, we can play as both.”

You spend the rest of the day arguing that pirates can’t have powers and that only superheroes can, but she shushes you and tells you that she’s the “ _only pirate in the world with a power_ ” and that no one else can know or else they’d be jealous.

You agree, as long as your power can be cooler than hers.

 

* * *

 

You somehow let yourself be convinced to dress up as a pirate for Halloween; you even got your Dad to draw on a beard for you and everything.

Max told you that you looked crazy good as soon as she saw you, and you nodded because no one other than your parents had said that before.

After three houses, you noticed that nearly every other kid was a pirate, too, and it made you mad.

“Well, that sucks,” Max says, and you storm off away from the streets and ran into the woods, and she followed, she always followed. “Chloe, wait up.”

You don’t even understand why you’re mad, maybe because pirate costumes were too childish to be wearing when you’re ten, maybe because it’s the first costume you’ve ever really put effort into, maybe because pirates were yours and Max’s thing and people were stealing it.

She finds you as soon as you sit down on a tree stump, sits right next to you and bumps your shoulder with her own.

“Chloe,” she says, but you don’t look up, just ball your fists and breathe. “Hey, c’mon.”

You know Max is trying to help but it’s not working and you stay mad until Max grabs your hand and walks you back to the streets.

Her mother picks you up and Max tells her that you’re spending the night with them, which she seems fine with.

\--

You anger subsides when the door to Max’s bedroom shuts and she hugs you tight. You cry and you don’t know why, but you wrap your arms around her waist and she doesn’t say anything if she notices your tears.

You clear your throat and she lets go, and you both pretend you didn’t cry, and dinner tastes really great and Max holds your hand in the darkness of her room hours later when you’re trying to fight off sleep.

“Feeling any better?”

You nod, remember that neither of you can really see because its past midnight and the moon is your only light, so you squeeze her hand and hope that it’s enough.

“We’re cooler than those kids, anyway.” You say, and it makes Max laugh so loud that she buries her face into your shoulder to keep quiet.

It makes your tummy flip and you try not to think about how fast your heart is beating because you know Max likes to listen to it when she falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

You managed to convince your parents that you’d be safe enough on your own for the night, after all, they’re only going out for dinner and a movie and you’re thirteen and you’re brave.

But you’re on the phone to Max when the power cuts out because of the storm raging outside, and thankfully Max remembers how scared of thunder you are because she’s ringing your doorbell ten minutes later with a bag over her shoulder and a pillow under her arm.

She has a flashlight, too, just in case you don’t have enough candles in your room, and you lead her up the stairs and she doesn’t say anything each time you jump at the thunder.

She gets you to build a pillow fort with everything you can possibly find in your room, it takes nearly an hour to build because Max is all about symmetry and apparently “ _knows her stuff_ ” when it comes to construction because she’s played a lot of _Sims 2_ lately.

There’s not much room inside but you both seem to fit along with the flashlight, and the storm isn’t as bad as it was so you can talk properly instead of yelling like before.

Max is talking about the last comic the two of you drew up when you start to zone out, because her hair is messy and she has fifteen freckles now instead of three and her braces came off so her teeth are really straight and you think that really, Max is pretty.

“You’re not listening, are you?”

“Sorry?”

She smiles, shakes her head fondly at you before telling you that you’re a dork. And you agree because you can’t deny it and your cheeks are heating up and she laughs at you and ruffles your hair.

“Truth or dare?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” Max crosses her legs; knees bumping with yours and you swallow hard when she looks up at you. “C’mon, just a couple rounds.”

You sigh. “Fine, truth.”

Max pretends to think, as if you don’t already know she’s gotten all these questions stashed away in her mind for moments exactly like these.

“What’s your dream job?”

You don’t know how to answer, you hadn’t really thought about it too much. You’re good at a few things but not good enough to make a career out of it, you can skate but you’ve fallen every time you try to show off a new trick to Max, and you can play drums pretty well but you can only ever play when no one’s home because your mother said it gives her a headache.

“I don’t know, maybe a rock star.” You say lamely, because you guess you’re better at drums than you are at skating, and Max looks at you like you’re a genius but you don’t ask her about it. “What about you, hm?”

Max’s lips purse and you try not to pay too much attention. “I really like when your dad lets me use his camera, I think photography is pretty rad.”

“You did not just say rad.”

“I totally just did.”

“You disgust me, Maxine.” You both laugh under your breath, and you can hear outside that the rain has stopped completely now except for the patter on your roof. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Okay, lame.” You tap your chin, watch Max put her hair into a ponytail and rake your eyes over the curve of her mouth and stop yourself from wondering what it would feel like to kiss her. “Do you like anyone right now?”

“That’s such a cliché question, oh my god.”

“I know, I know. I couldn’t think of anything else, alright, cut me some slack it’s pretty late.”

“Chloe, it’s like, ten p.m.”

“Oh.” You look down; ignore the flush of your neck. “Shut up, just answer the question.”

Max doesn’t say anything until you look back up, doesn’t say anything until you feel like her eyes have analysed you entirely.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Yes, I like someone.”

That makes you shoot up, your knees cracking against hers and you hold in the curses you want to say because Max is still a year younger than you and you don’t want to ruin her yet.

“Who is it?”

“It's my turn to be asking the question now.”

You wave your hand, “Fine.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” You don’t know what makes you do it; you never really choose dare often, but something about being confined into a fort with your best friend made you want to take a risk or two.

Max stares down at the flashlight, clicks it on and off a few times before leaving the two of you in the dark, pillows pressed into your backs and light tittering of rain the only sound other than your breathing.

“I dare you to kiss me.”

You feel a lump in your throat, one you can’t swallow down so instead you throw it up in words. “What?”

“I double dare you, kiss me.”

Double dare, ones that you can’t back out of, ones that mean business. You wish right now that you could reverse time and choose truth because you think you’ve made the stupidest decision in your life when you say, “Okay.”

You stay put for a second, and you can still see Max in front of you, moonlight and candles streaming through the sheet you’ve cocooned yourselves with. She’s looking at you and waiting, and you don’t know if she’s shaking but you know you are and you know that this is bad and that you’re probably going to be a bad kisser because the only person you’ve gotten close to was some boy at a party last week when you played spin the bottle.

You start to lean in, push yourself up onto your knees so you’ve got some more space to move in case you need to run away and never come back.

Max is prettier close up, and her eyes are big and bright compared to how dark the room is. You close your eyes, bring your hand up to Max’s shoulder to keep balanced and lean even closer.

“Okay, I’m, uh, I’m gonna kiss you now, alright?”

You feel Max laugh against you and her breath is warm against your chin, and there’s a haze in your mind and you’re _this_ close to kissing her when you hear the front door swing open and your mother’s heels _clack_ up the staircase.

You inch to the left, kiss the very corner of Max’s mouth – far away enough to be considered a peck on the cheek – and sit back with your knees up to your chest as your mother knocks before bursting into your bedroom.

She playfully sticks her head under part of the sheet, careful not to disturb the fort-esque vibe the two of you have going on.

“Hey girls, how’d you travel through the storm?”

“We did okay; we’re pretty safe, as you can tell.” Max says, gestures all around you.

“I can, I can, job well done, kids. Anyway, I was just checking in to wish you a goodnight and to let you know that I’ll be cooking up a storm of pancakes for breakfast, courtesy of William stopping at the store, so you two better be up before him or else you’ll miss out.”

“Bless your heart, Joyce.” Max beams, nudges you.

“Uh, yeah, thanks, Mom.”

She kisses you both on the forehead, makes sure not to knock over the fort and leaves, shutting the door behind her.

Max doesn’t mention anything about the kiss, and you don’t play truth or dare for the rest of the night. You reach out for Max in the dark, hold her hand in yours and she squeezes it with a smile.

You feel her heart beat when you wait for sleep to come, her hand keeping yours over her chest, and you feel it thrum from fast to slow as you hear her breathing even out.

Every time you look at her, you think of kissing her, and you wonder if her heart can beat even faster than that – it doesn’t seem possible.

 

* * *

 

You prided yourself on not crying since you were ten years old, but something inside you snaps four years later when you watch your Dad’s frosted figure shovel Bongo from the road through the window.

Max comes over that afternoon, hugs you as soon as she sees you and makes sure she’s always holding your hand or has her arm around you all day.

It’s the first time you’ve ever warn an all black outfit, and Max tries to cheer you up by making a joke of how its “ _totally your style_ ” but you brush it off by telling her everything is your style and she smiles hopefully at you.

She helps you bury the cardboard box that Bongo lies in, brings her own shovel and picks flowers from your front yard without asking and puts them over the grave when the two of you have finished.

She lets you say your goodbyes, doesn’t mention how puffy your eyes are when you meet her on the swing-set and makes sure that your gaze doesn’t fix on the tombstone your Dad managed to make for too long.

She distracts you instead, bumps your swing with hers and makes you look up at the sky.

“You know, that was the same box I gave him to you in.”

“Yeah,” you say, kick up some of the grass at your feet. “He never let us throw it out, he liked it more than his own bed.”

Max laughs and you smile, maybe you can deal with this sort of sadness, as long as Max is here with you.

“I love you, Chloe.”

“I know.”

You never say it back, feels like you’d be saying it differently to Max. She says it because you’re her best friend, because she cares about you and because you’re sad right now.

You don’t want to say it back, because you’ve noticed her parents talking about money and Seattle and “ _getting away_ ” and you don’t want the first time you say it to Max to be the last.

 

* * *

 

You wake up extra early with Max one morning and rush downstairs to the table so the two of you can finally finish those last few panels of the comic you’d been working on the night before, and she kicks your foot under the table and you stick your tongue out at her and for a moment you forget that she’s going to be leaving soon because right now everything is perfect.

Max is shading the hero’s cape when your Dad asks you to help make some breakfast, and you beg him for pancakes even though you know they won’t be as good as when your Mom makes them but he agrees.

You’re mixing the batter when your Mom calls, says she needs to be picked up from work and that you need some groceries too, and of course your Dad agrees and you make a joke about how whipped he is to Max and she laughs.

Your Dad takes a moment to find his keys, but he assures you that he’s not going to leave you and that he’ll be back soon and that’s enough for you to smile.

\--

He doesn’t come back.

You dress in all black again, realise that it is your style, and that everything is probably going to be dark from now on.

You don’t cry, you don’t let Max hug you.

You’re just sick of everyone leaving. Bongo, your Dad, you don’t know if you can take it.

\--

Max is next; she takes off for Seattle a week after the funeral.

She tells you she loves you, you don’t say it back. She promises that you’ll keep in touch, but you don’t believe her.

Everyone leaves, no one stays, and you’re just going to have to get used to it.

\--

It’s hard, having to wean yourself off of feeling is hard. But you do it, you have to do it. You can’t get hurt again, can’t get attached again.

You’ve found that the best method so far is angry music, apathy, and disregarding rules.

Your mother seems to think this is a phase, that you’ll grow out of whatever this is.

You slam the door on her face; it’s her fault everyone leaves in the first place.

 

* * *

 

You stay angry, it bleeds out from you and everyone seems to get the hint that you give zero fucks by the time you’re fifteen.

It feels like knives to look at your mother, tastes like venom when you try to call her ‘Mom’ so you just stop it all together. She’s Joyce now, she’s the woman that works at the diner and happened to give birth to you, but now she’s taken down all the photos of your Dad and put them in an album and stashed them away.

That hurts the most, the fact that he’s not even around to see anymore.

You hate Joyce, you hate Max, you hate everything.

 

* * *

 

You’re sixteen and your GPA is lower than the stock market after the crash, and you’d like to think that someone would care and maybe offer to help you but Joyce is just disappointed and the principal doesn’t even bat an eyelid when he tells you that you’re on thin ice.

You find out that there’s ways of dealing with this sort of crap other than rebelling, that there’s things you can do that make it go away.

You cut, you dye. You get rid of everything you once were, shove every item of clothing you once owned into the bottom of your closet and replace it with anything you deem fit enough for Joan Jett to wear, and you shake your hair out in front of the mirror until it hangs over your eyes and you can’t see yourself anymore.

You figure this is the new you, this is the you that you were meant to be all along. Sweet Chloe was the phase, happy Chloe was just a passing fling.

Bitter Chloe, angry Chloe, pissed off and fucked up Chloe, yeah, it had a better ring to it.

\--

You watch Joyce come home in a car that isn’t hers, watch her get walked to the door by some guy with a moustache made for a 70s porno and you turn away as you watch him lean in.

You storm down the stairs, beanie in hand and heave the front door open. You push past them, ignore the comments from either of them and grab your longboard from where it was leaning against the mailbox.

You don’t cry until you’re sure you’re out of sight.

\--

Joyce introduces him as David a week later, says you need to treat him with respect because he fought for this country and because she feels very strongly for him.

You almost spit in his face when he says he knows he can’t replace your father, because no, he can’t, no one fucking can and that’s the whole point of having a Dad, you’re only meant to have one.

You sneak out after midnight, skate until your legs are sore and you end up buying some pot from some guy named Frank. He seemed nice, and his dog was cute after it stopped barking at you.

Frank tells you that this batch is good enough that you’ll see stars, and you trust him because hey, he’s the only person that hasn’t been an ass to you since you dyed your hair.

You make sure to smoke it in your room with the window closed, get as obviously blazed as possible because why the fuck not.

You don’t see stars but you dream of Max and how you think she’d taste like space, and you think maybe that’s the same thing.

 

* * *

 

You meet Rachael when you’re seventeen, when you’re supposed to be at Joyce and Step-Douche’s rehearsal dinner but instead you’re getting a piercing – nothing major, just your belly button, but it’s enough to piss Joyce off and that’s all you want.

She asks why you’re here and you don’t answer, just shrug and by the time you’ve had metal go through your skin and payed she’s still there, waiting for her answer.

“Not the talkative type, are you?”

You stare at her to prove her point, watch her smile and you think that she reminds you of someone but you don’t say anything.

“Okay, well, I’m Rachael, and I have a spare blunt if you’re willing to tell me what’s wrong.”

You think maybe it’s not a good idea, but she’s prettier than Frank and she looks honest so you follow her out to an alleyway and let her hand you a smoke.

“I don’t have any money.” You say after taking a hit, breathing it into the air and watching the words plume.

“Like I said, all you gotta do is tell me what’s wrong.”

You sigh, lean your head back and inhale.

“I want to say everything.”

“But you’re worried that you’ll come across as a dick?”

You crack a smile, “Pretty much.”

“Okay, well, let’s get to the nitty gritty then.” You watch her for a moment, caught up in sparkling eyes and straight hair and you wonder why someone as seemingly straight-laced as her is toking up in the back alleyway of a dead end piercing shop. “Why are you so mad?”

You feel the joint between your fingers, wonder where you went so wrong that you had to start filling yourself with smoke to feel whole again.

“My Dad is dead – car accident, three years ago. My best friend up and left a week later, and I haven’t heard from her since.”

“Well shit, that’s pretty heavy.”

“Tell me about it.”

You finish the joint, stamp it out on the ground and stare at the thick black line it leaves on the concrete. Maybe your Dad’s car left the same marks on the road; you guess you’ll never know.

Before you know it, you’re crying, three years of pride going down the drain and you let Rachael hug you, let her hold you close and let her tell you everything is going to be okay.

You don’t think it will, because Bongo is dead and your Dad is dead and Max might be and you don’t even know and Joyce is getting married to an asshat. But Rachael is warm and she smells like smoke and flowers and its intoxicating and you think you’re high because you feel a warmth you haven’t in years when you breathe.

\--

You think Rachael might be an angel, you really do.

You’re both lying on your bed, staring up at the roof and she’s telling you all about the plans she has for the two of you. She talks of getting out of here, of fixing up your mangy truck and leaving Arcadia Bay for the lavish promise-land of LA.

And you believe her, because she’s the only one who’s been able to break down your walls and you think that really is something.

She pokes at your arm and you flinch, the flesh still tender and sore.

“You know, we should probably change the dressing on that.”

“It's not a wound, Rachael, chill. I just need to replace the cling wrap on it.”

“Cling wrap, on a tattoo.”

“Yes, cling wrap. Trust me, my Dad used to tell me it worked all the time as a kid.”

Neither of you say anything at the mention of your father, and you just slink downstairs to find what you need for your arm.

It stings like a bitch, there’s no way you’re going to deny that. But there’s no way you’re going to admit it to Rachael, either, she would get too many kicks out of knowing this was a horribly half-drunken idea.

You throw away the old dressing, replace it with cling wrap because you trust your Dad, even if he didn’t have any tattoos and laughed after he told you.

\--

You think Rachael is sleeping with Frank, but you don’t say anything. She seems happier, and she says school is going well (you wouldn’t know, you were kicked out), and you’re getting your pot at friends’ rates – something Frank is definitely not known for.

You ask Rachael if she’s seeing someone, and she nods, but that’s all there is to it.

You drink too much that night, alone in your room with the music up loud enough to not hear Step-Dick come home. You don’t even eat dinner, just close your eyes and feel the beat run through your veins quicker than the alcohol.

You dream of Rachael, of how small and frail she is, and yet how strong she is. She’s been through hell and back, and she knows what it takes to get what she wants. She reminds you of Max, or the Max you remember.

You don’t dream of Max anymore, four years is just too long to remember how many freckles she had and which way her hair parted.

You dream of forts and thunderstorms, though, of candlelit teenage gossip and dares of kisses and it makes your chest hurt and when you throw up the morning after you convince yourself it’s because of the alcohol and not the venom on your tongue from when you think too hard about what could have been.

 

* * *

 

You’re getting antsy about leaving Arcadia Bay, you think of packing up your truck so many times but you remember that you need the money and that you need Rachael for it.

You think that Nathan Prescott is an easy enough target, that he likes his medicine cabinet high and that he’s got enough money to support an entire student body through college.

You meet him in a bar; try to steal the money because he’s already way too drunk to see straight. Of course, nothing ever works out that well for you.

You wake up to find him crawling over you, camera hovering, and you freak the fuck out.

You kick at him, but everything is blurry and you think you hit a lamp instead. It’s enough, though, and Nathan scampers off.

You don’t like to think about it, you block the night out from your memory and think maybe Frank would be willing to give you and Rachael the money – after all, you’re still pretty sure they’re a thing.

\--

Rachael disappears near the end of April, and you know it’s not because she left.

You had made posters a week after she went missing, hung them up absolutely everywhere because Rachael was _not_ going to be like the rest, she was not going to leave you, the two of you had plans, and god fucking dammit you weren’t going to let her leave you like this.

Everyone tells you that she just left for LA without you; even Frank thinks she packed up her own car and left.

But you know better, you know Rachael wouldn’t leave, you know, you know, you know.

 

* * *

 

You offer to keep Nathan’s little secret for a nice sum of money, and he tells you to meet him in the girls bathroom of Blackwell. You know its dodgy, and you know you’re probably going to get murdered, but hey, maybe being shanked at this rate would hurt a lot less than having both your best friends disappear on you in the span of five years.

You check all the stalls, opening each one up and hoping that you didn’t miss anyone – the last thing you need on top of being possibly killed is someone seeing your embarrassing demise.

“I’ve got nothing for you.” He says, and you call bullshit on it straight away.

You figure now is the best time to play the drug card, and you tell him you know all about his pubescent cartel, threaten to tell his family for good measure.

He pulls a gun on you, and yeah, you saw it coming – he _is_ too rich for a switchblade.

You’re pinned to the wall, the gun sharp against your stomach and fear runs ice cold in your veins.

“Nobody would even miss your punk ass, would they?”

You know he’s right; no one would give a flying fuck. You’re just another Blackwell dropout, another fuck up in your family tree, you’re no big deal.

You go slack for a second, ready to let him shoot you, to end this. But the fire alarm rings and you stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself, instinct finally kicking in and you knee him where it hurts, getting the fuck out of there as soon as you can.

The first thing you notice while you run is that nothing reeks of smoke, no one is panicking and you realise it’s probably a drill – either that, or someone managed to save your ass.

\--

You make it to your truck in one piece, and you think you might as well chill out here for as long as you can, not like you had anywhere to be anyway.

But you see the stack of posters sitting on your dashboard, see Rachael’s stupidly gorgeous smile and think it’s about time you put some more of these up.

You make sure the coast is clear of Prescott each time you want to tack up a fresh poster, only putting up one on each notice board because you’ve seen how many students have thrown onto the ground and you think (you know) Rachael deserves better than that.

You finish the pile pretty quickly, and you try to be as ninja as possible when you make your way back to the truck.

You’re just pulling out of the parking space when you spot him, this time hassling some girl. You slam your foot down on the brake before you hit her, and when she gets up from the ground you feel like you’ve just been hit by a train.

“Max?”

She says your name and you feel like you could burst, whether from excitement or anger, you have no idea. But you make sure she gets in the car, speeding off as you watch some poor kid get his ass handed to him and a figure in blue you know all too well try to break them up.

\--

Max starts feeling sorry for herself almost as soon as you open your mouth, and you make sure to tell her not to give you the guilty face.

She tells you she’s seriously glad to see you, and you feel like your ribs are cracking at the words.

“So, what’d that freak want with you?” You ask, reminding yourself to keep your eyes on the road.

“Hopefully nothing after today. So, how do you know Nathan?”

“He’s just another Arcadia asshole.”

You don’t elaborate, don’t think you need to because she nods and that seems to be enough. Thankfully, that part of Max hasn’t changed.

“It feels so weird to be back.”

You smile.

You know the feeling.

“So I guess Seattle sucked hard, huh?”

She tells you that it’s a great place for photos, the exact answer you expected, and you joke about Arcadia being a hick-town just so your chest will stop hurting.

She says it’s not so bad after seeing you, but you know better than that. You know Max didn’t come back for you, you may have missed her to the point where you had to drink to forget her name but that doesn’t mean she did the same for you.

“Please, girl. You came back for Blackwell Academy.”

“Of course, it’s one of the best photography programs in the country.” You think of twelve year old Max, the one that dreamed big over using your Dad’s camera. It makes something tug in you, but she keeps talking and the feeling goes away. “And my favourite teacher, Mark Jefferson.”

You couldn’t help yourself.

“So, you came back to Arcadia for a teacher, not your best friend?”

She looks like you’ve punched her, slack mouth and wide eyes.

“Don’t you think I’m happy to see you?”

You feel like laughing, like crying or screaming or even crashing the car but you don’t think about it and you just remember to breathe and keep your eyes on the road.

“No.” You say, and it’s true, you don’t think she is. “You were happy to wait five years without a call, or even a text.”

She tells you she wanted to, that there was a lot going on but you just shrug it off, you shouldn’t care, you _don’t_ care.

“You’ve been at Blackwell for almost a month without letting me know. ‘Nuff said.”

“I just wanted to settle in first and not to be such a shy, cliché geek.” She says, and you nearly laugh because that’s exactly what Max is, what Max was. “I totally would’ve contacted you.”

It’s a lame excuse, and you let her know as much. It’s been too long to reopen these wounds, and you just want them stitched up before you bleed out.

Its silent, and Max does what she always does when its silent, she reaches into her bag for her camera to take a photo (or ‘ _capture the moment_ ’or whatever she used to say).

But it’s broken, and you feel bad enough for her that you tell her she can try to fix it at your place – not even realising that it’s been five years and yet you just invited her back into your home. So much for not reopening wounds, you just gave her the freaking scalpel.

You settle for a joke about your Step-Douche being a ‘tiny tool’ and a “ _welcome home, Max_ ”, and the corner of her lips quirk and you figure that’s the best you’re going to get for now.

After six months of being completely alone, you’d be willing to take anything Max will give.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> so this is part one of two (possibly three or four, depending on how invested I get), and until further notice, it'll all be from Chloe's point of view because it seems punk-rock angst is all my mind can churn out lately thanks to this game - which totally wrecked me btw  
> ps- you should totally come talk to me about this au or even this game @ blxx-m.tumblr.com


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